


100% SILK

by homo_pink



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Priests, Blasphemy, Extremely Underage, M/M, Pedophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 05:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4907362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/pseuds/homo_pink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen is a priest that teaches choir boy Jared how to suck cock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	100% SILK

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tebtosca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tebtosca/gifts).



> For the spn_masquerade prompt:
> 
> _Jensen is a priest that teaches choir boy Jared how to suck cock._
> 
> _I prefer for Jensen to have no guilt about it, and have done it before. Jared between 10-14, ideally._
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://spn-masquerade.livejournal.com/6017.html?thread=1905793#t1905793).

_**Proverbs 22:6 Train up a child in the way he should go, and even when he is old he will not depart from it.** _

 

Unblossomed boys always look like sacred deities when they have a cock between their lips. 

It doesn't say so in the Bible, but one delirious glance down at Jared curled all limber and tamed between Jensen's legs, the boy looking up at him with a runny nose and real faith in his eyes, it makes Jensen pray from deep down in his spirit. 

Jared's brittle-soft "did I do it right?" is a once devout priest's benediction. 

 

~

 

“Love is patient, love is kind,” Jensen says softly, prayerfully, just to himself as he scrubs his hands all the way to the elbow at the Kiddie Korner sink. 

He isn’t dirty; this is ritual. The youth room is his favorite place in the entire chapel. There’s an imagined echo-memory of little peals of laughter, and the scents of glue and construction paper and jungle gym skin. 

The best, though, is his most recent discovery: the small purple handprint stamped on the poster near the door. There are twenty-two handprints in all this year, fresh crop, but this one in particular – if one knows what to look for – feels special.

This hand is off to the side, away from the others, just a bit remote. Somewhat exiled, not fitting in as easily with the rest of the rainbow? Maybe even a shy little petal, timid. 

Handprints are done at Sunday school orientation. It was just this morning. Jensen's disappointed to have missed that first faint whiff.

The church bells will be ringing soon, almost time for mass. He dries himself off and buttons his sleeves, smooths his vestments down. On the way out, he presses a delicate hand to the lonely purple one and licks at the corner of his mouth. The way his fingers overlap the small ones is staggering. The contrast of it looks like a miracle.

It says _Jared_ underneath. Jensen squeezes his thighs together. He can’t wait to meet him. 

 

~

 

The inside of a child’s mouth is a place of tiny dreams. Dead tongue, honey warmth. Maybe a loose tooth in there if you’re lucky. That first slide in is unforgettable. 

 

~

 

There have been others over the years. Some that he was able to enjoy more than the rest, for longer than the rest. Twelve and thirteen year old boys that went from babyfat cheeks to preteen skin before Jensen’s half-lidded eyes, beneath his worshipful hands, petting them in places where nobody had ever loved them before.

A few have ended up moving away, taking Jensen’s secrets to new cities far beyond, safe. Others have simply grown up, rebelled their way out of religion and out of Jensen’s reach. It works out rather pleasantly. Jensen’s area of attraction doesn’t much extend to actualized teenagehood.

 

~

 

More than anything, it’s the gracelessness of the novice that brings him to his knees. 100% silk skin and slippery sweetheart motions. A portrait of a saint, full color. The ultimate virgin.

It’s like learning how to whistle with your fingers. Jensen had taught him how to do that one, too. Gotta get them in at just the right angle, close down, blow. Re-adjust, try again. Once more, good, perfect, oh god. 

“You’re really good at this,” Jensen says on a watery sigh. Even though it isn’t true, it’s not a lie. The hot little cup of Jared’s barely open lips is _stunning_. Soft, soft, soft. There are cookie crumbs on his cheeks. When Jensen comes, he also cries. 

He is Jared's, Jared is his.

 

~

 

He almost misses the boy at first.

It’s evening worship, six o’clock mass and the organs have just begun. Last minute stragglers and harried families of five are hurrying in to find seats at the benches. 

Jensen’s up at the altar, stepping up to the pulpit to greet the assembly and begin the opening prayer when a slight commotion along the center aisle disturbs the air. A poorly looking child with a wrinkled clip-on tie and moppy hair veiling his face has stumbled over the edge of the rug, thin greyhound pup legs gone haywire amongst themselves.

There’s a whiting, bent-backed old man at the boy’s side, walking with a cane. He can barely assist himself. 

The boy’s as red as a rose when he picks himself up off the floor, a gentle hesitance in his mannerisms and endearingly uncoordinated by nature, and Jensen feels the uptick in his heartbeat long before the boy has settled into the pew, swept damp hair off his forehead. Shown Jensen a face to fall in love with.

 

~

 

Two blessings in Jensen's life come in the form of overworked parents and a daycare service free to all parishioners. The easy access means he never has to seek far. He has all he could wish for right in the sanctuary of his own home, the Lord’s house. 

God gives him everything he needs. 

And yet it still comes as a shock when the clumsy little soul from the night before comes up to the desk Jensen’s at and signs in on the log for the after school program, small hand gripping the pen in a tricky angle as he carefully jots down his name in newly learned looping cursive.

It’s upside down from where he sits, but Jensen decodes the mess of letters easily. This, this unimposing little human, is Jared. Purple Jared.

Up close, he's a fleshed out 3 a.m. dream Jensen once had. With his bloodful cheeks and hummingbird bones and gaunt, cupped-in shoulders. A collection of sharp little parts. Watery, allergy eyes. The easy fluidity of something that doesn't know it's being watched. He's the sound of glass flying apart in shards. 

Jensen already knows how their hands could look together. His own start to sweat. 

“Hi, Jared,” Jensen says for the first time, and finds true delight in the way his voice catches on the last syllable, like it does when he’s just about to orgasm.

“Hey,” Jared says. Muffled politeness. He moves along to a table by himself to crack open a slim chapter book, away from the other kids, pitifully alone. Jensen has to breathe thinly through his nose, count backwards from fifty.

When nobody is looking, Jensen drags a fox-quick fingertip along the drying ink of the boy’s written word and sinks it into his mouth like an act of devotion, of eucharist. He tries to find the flavor of a name, to taste the meat of a Lamb.

 

~

 

It’s a process, finding the right one. 

They need to first align with Jensen’s libido, these angels. The soft-spoken are most ideal. Worried confusion in their eyes, moral mouths that just don't know to object. 

Weakly, flat-chested boys with scarce muscles and even less soft fuzz pelting their bodies. Hair means _puberty_ and _growth_ and _adult_ – all things that make Jensen’s spirit and arousal wilt. Any reminder that soon these works of art will be men is enormously revolting.

But more vital yet, more fragile than Jensen’s preference for androgyny and wet lashes, is their willingness to keep it Top Secret. Like a game that lasts forever. They can’t tell anyone. 

_Not even Jesus,_ Jensen has had to say, placing tender kisses at their trembling chins. 

 

~

 

Jared’s grandfather is his legal guardian and he’s decrepit in a way that Jensen hopes to never be. Age-spotty, a little senile, cataracts marring his vision.

Jensen has spots, too – on his shoulders, his fingers, crawling all over his face. But they’re the kind that look youthful, have the bake-sale ladies referring to him as _that sweet, young priest_ , have their spotless sons trusting his appearance. 

Father Jensen, everybody's friend.

 

~

 

“You like to read?” 

Jared looks up from his newest novel, bug-eyed wary. As though nobody's ever spoken to him before, isn’t used to attention. Jensen’s been vulturing near the table Jared sits at everyday, docilely hushed with his school stuff, and Jensen decides it’s finally time he sit down too. He's been so good for so long. 

He pulls out one of the small plastic chairs and smiles his nice pastor smile. Blinks dollishly. Folds his hands neatly on the tabletop and waits. Jensen can be discreet, too.

Jared shrugs, and then quickly nods. 

“Me too,” Jensen says. The boy probably thinks he means scripture. “Have you read Where the Red Fern Grows?”

When Jared shakes his head, the wispy pieces around his ears flutter a little. Jensen pictures his own large fingers curled tight in there, locked in ecstasy’s grip.

“Oh. Well maybe it’ll be on your reading list this year,” Jensen goes on, conversational. He pretends to admire the colorful artworks lining the walls, pretends he isn’t hyperfocused on Jared’s proximity, the palpable way he knows Jared’s staring at him a little. “Actually. What grade are you in?”

A little runty, but Jensen sure doesn't mind. Jensen’s groin says seventh, probably.

Jared glances back to his book and picks at a loose band-aid on his elbow. Jensen has to lean in to hear him. “Fifth,” Jared says. There's a slight scrape of disuse in his voice.

"Fifth? Wow," Jensen says, flayed. "One of the big kids." 

Jared shrugs again, but he looks a little pleased. "I guess. I'm ten."

It’s sudden, and overtaking, the ample wetness sluicing his underwear. Jensen tries to cover it up with some coughing, twisting in his blue dinosaur chair, one hand over his mouth, the other shooting to his lap to press himself back down. 

The poor honey of a boy squeaks with a genuine fear, “are you alright?” when he sees Jensen turning red. He feels red _all over_. Jensen waves him off shakily but Jared pats at Jensen’s back anyway, uncertain and alarmed and so, so soft a ladybug couldn’t get away with it. 

Jensen's body seizes up and he has to excuse himself before he faints. Jared is ten years old and Jensen comes like a holy fountain into his hand in the closest chapel washroom. 

He tongues it clean, imagines kissing it into Jared's chocolate-milk mouth, and doesn't wash his hands before he heads back out to talk books with a quiet boy. Jensen's youngest yet.

 

~

 

Grandpa can’t drive. His late daughter's only son takes the bus from home to school, then again from school to the program. And Jensen drives him home in the church charter everyday at 7pm, Monday thru Friday. He delivers Jared to his little yellow house with the wooden porch steps and the side window that doesn't close all the way. 

Jared's the only child whose parent doesn’t come to pick him up. The close togetherness of these rides becomes a crippling addiction, puissant and pure and straight into Jensen's leeched open veins.

 

~

 

The puppies are the key.

It takes next to nothing to notice it, especially when Jensen’s so good at noticing things. 

The celestial one has a floppy spiral notebook with him at all times, from a bargain store, hair-thin paper. It’s full of pencil-and-crayon pictures of dogs. Funny, artless looking things with uneven eyes and out of proportion tails. Always dogs. When Jared’s not reading, he’s dog-ing.

 

~

 

Like a true omnipotent force, Jared is the sole focus in Jensen’s world. It's pleasurable in the way having a schoolyard crush is. It feels like first romance. Like waiting to find out whether Jared will circle yes or no.

 

~

 

Jared doesn’t know it, but every offered detail, Jensen stores away for later perusal. Jensen feeds off each admission, tiny lifelines watering his thirst. 

A pet hamster that died, his favorite slushie flavor, a bedwetting problem he suffered from until he was eight. That one comes with a delicious mortification that Jensen savors. Everything means something if someone’s around to pay it attention. 

Ms. Claudine is an ebullient lady with frizzy red hair and a mothering smile and the crepey skin on her neck waddles when she laughs. She's a divine intervention. She runs the program and oversees every homework lab and craft station setup. And she never ever bothers them. 

Jensen does his best to look bashful when she sings his praises. Jensen wanted to be an actor, once. Ms. Claudine knows that each year Jensen selects one child to dedicate his time to, coaxing the bitty turtle out of their shell. Being that ear they need to stutter in, that guiding hand that reassures. 

She finds this distinctly admirable. She doesn't know how reassuring his hand can be.

_We’re so lucky to have you, Father._

 

~

 

"What's on your mind?" 

At a red light one milky evening, Jensen notices Jared's little mood-stone eyes being seduced by the rosary swinging from the rearview mirror. Like he's seeing past the opal beads. Jared blinks out of his baby blanket thoughts, dazed at Jensen's soft question. 

Clenching his asshole, clamping teeth on the edge of his tongue, Jensen leans over and gives himself the gift of pressing a hand to the bare warmth of Jared's poky knee, like comfort. It makes Jensen's cock jerk in rejoice. 

Jared doesn't flinch or move away, but he briefly looks down at Jensen's hand, a pretty scarlet collaring his twig throat.

"You–" Jared stops, unsure. The light changes and Jensen achingly pries his hand back to the steering wheel. He tries to smile encouragingly, for them both. "You're so. You're really nice."

Jensen taps the brake by mistake, thrown. Jared skids a bit in his seat, soft little hair flying forward adorably. 

Something tickles the inside of Jensen's belly. His groin feels hot. He says, working past his excitement, "I can't tell you how glad I am that you feel that way, Jared. It's actually. It's something of a goal of mine. Showing you how special you are."

When Jared softly questions this, Jensen has to clear his graveyard throat. 

"Well. I guess it's just that–" he switches lanes, hardly remembers traffic signals, the swoosh of blood in his ears loud, the throbbing between his jelly legs making him pant. He doesn't breathe a lie when he says, "I have a soft spot for kids. I just. Love them."

"Oh." Jared says. It sounds—injured. Jensen double-checks, has to be sure he's reading this right, can't be, but. It's right there. An upset frowny mouth, Jared looking at his worn-through K-Mart shoes like he's trying to be brave at the pediatrician's.

"I really like _you_ , Jared."

And like children's magic, like the grace of God, Jared's gummy smile – his real smile – comes tumbling out, beatific, and Jensen's in all new waters. Murky up to his fevered armpits. Jensen finds himself floating flummoxed on the boy's deep dimpled rapture. Baptism.

 

~

 

Loving Jared feels like a ribboned noose slipped around the neck. Luxe and velveteen and encrusted with diamonds, but growing tighter by the inch, by the day. Jensen's heart asphyxiates hopelessly.

 

~

 

“There’s an animal shelter not too far from here,” Jensen says one day after mass when he spots Jared standing at the community bulletin board near the front of the chapel, peering up at the Lost Dog posters. Grandpa is nearby, soaking his dentures laughing with the other seniors. 

In his Sunday attire of highwater khakis and should-be shiny shoes, Jared looks like a little present. He’s even wearing a lopsided checkered bowtie. _Someday I’m going to unwrap you_ , Jensen thinks, warmly fond at the thought, and smiles when Jared turns to face him.

“Does that itch?” Jared blurts, momentarily distracting Jensen from his quest.

Jensen’s in his flowy surplice and white gloves, and he waves at passing members of the congregation like his balls aren’t throbbing beneath his robes just from standing next to Jared. Uninhibited as only a child can be, the boy reaches out to pat at the material. A diminutive hand comes close to touching Jensen's pubic bone. And Jensen _covets_. Badly.

“The shelter,” Jensen tries again, as a means to neutralize himself. “Have you been before?”

Just as Jensen thought, Jared shakes his head. He puffs a little sigh, too. Solemn, forlorn. “No point.”

“Oh?”

“We can’t afford another mouth,” Jared says, a clear recitation from the bones of grandfather. Jensen doesn’t dispute this. The way Jared glows alive when Jensen brings him a zebra cake or some cheez-balls confirms what he already suspected. 

"Well, the shelter isn't all about adopting. They can always use a couple of friendly guys to help walk the critters. Read to the kittens. If you're ever interested..."

When Jared catches on, his entire puny frame near-vibrates. "You mean–you mean," and Jensen grins and says _yeah, buddy,_ bends down to bump their shoulders together. "We can–you'd take me?" He makes it sound like Disneyland instead of a smelly fortress of cat piss and mange. 

"Absolutely," Jensen nods, cracking the top of his spine. "Say when."

 

~

 

Jensen gets his first real taste on a drizzly Thursday afternoon when the rest of the group is watching WALL-E, grass dew thick in his nostrils, partly dismayed at how he’s begun to notice himself _not_ noticing other children anymore, their sweat-spicy scents or the leaves in their halo-hair, and that’s never happened, that _never_ happens, not to him. 

It’s not a very restful feeling, this change in him. He’s too absorbed, too fixated on—

Jared rummages through his green binder with a deep-focus expression creasing his little face, tongue curled at the corner of his lips determinedly. He hands Jensen a school-page filled with careful pencil text, top to bottom, and he looks proud of whatever it is, but he also won’t look at Jensen directly. Shy honeybee eyes sweep the floor.

_When I Grow Up I Want To Be…_ it says at the top. 

He never even makes it past seeing his name in the first sentence, in that handwriting, from that chubby-fingered hand. In a loose leaf paper trance, Jensen takes the boy by the back of his dampy neck and quietly leads him out of the low-lit room, takes him to the rectory out back for the first time.

 

~

 

This is Jensen’s confessional. It’s his glory and his _thank you_ and his sign of the cross.

He’s muzzy and mushbrained and his heart’s beating hard in his chest. Hair gone stuck to his skull with rainwater, drops of something clouding his sight to a blur. It might be from the sky, it might be from his soul. Jared is _such_ a good boy. Lax and obedient and so full of trust Jensen’s whole body aches with starvation.

The couch is basic brown and just large enough to be functional. When Jared sits down on it, he sinks in. Its pillows and cushions nearly swallow him whole, its belly giving a satisfied burp. Jensen's legs almost give out.

“You did something special for me,” Jensen says, bending at the waist to look Jared in the eye. Jared ducks his chin and glows cherry. He twists his fingers worriedly, but he’s playing hide and seek with an infant smile. Jensen’s always been great at finding. He goes on, “so I'd like to do something special for you.”

Wonderingly, Jared takes a mousy sweet look around, like a circus might be hidden under the table, or a scene from his favorite book is readying to come to life. 

In a leaden skeleton, Jensen lowers himself to the ground, gentle hands spreading Jared’s skinny foal knees apart like a soft, sheer curtain made of gauze and spun sugar, genuflecting between them.

“I really want to show you how happy you’ve made me, Jared,” Jensen says. “If you say I can.”

Jared looks at him down on the carpet, disbelieving, like Jensen’s made him powerful. A god. 

“Will you let me?” 

Jensen knows what he looks like when his big green eyes are filmed with tears. He’s practiced the look in the mirror before. He doesn’t have to try today, wears no falsities this time. The sting is naturally there.

“Yeah,” Jared says, dove-white and frail. 

"It might feel a little funny, but I mean it very seriously." A bobbled nod. 

He doesn’t take off Jared’s shirt to learn the piano keys of his ribs; he doesn’t peel away ankle socks and kiss his bare feet like footsteps in sand. He doesn’t even pull Jared’s shorts down all the way, not that first time. 

Wobbly in his own meat, Jensen gets his fingers dug beneath the waistbands of gym mesh and white Hanes, and he closes his eyes when he takes Jared’s skinny cock into his mouth, absolved of all others that came before.

Jared pants and squirms and he never gets hard, but Jensen is praying while he’s sucking, rubbing the heel of his hand at his own crotch, and he doesn’t need much more in life than this. Jared was worth the weeks of pining. He’ll be worth any penance in the afterlife.

When Jensen’s replete himself and dripping more than water, the storm outside hasn’t stopped at all. It’s only gotten stronger. Jared’s arms feather around Jensen's neck in a hug, overwhelmed. 

Jensen rubs his little back soothingly. This is it.

This is Jensen’s _I love you_.

 

~

 

Everything looks big on Jared, like weight pulling him down. The overly long sleeves tumbling loosely past his snappable wrists, the torn vinyl backpack with the previous owner’s name legible beneath the strikeout – the one that looks like a comically bulky parachute vest on him. 

Even his teeth look too big for his face, crowding his mouth like dissolving tic-tacs. 

Jensen's fondling hands on Jared's naked body look the biggest, weigh the heaviest of all.

 

~

 

Captain Salamander requires a handful of things: getting his nuts lopped off, a 40 lb. bag of kibble, the affections of a little boy. Jensen Ackles only requires that last one.

He’s a blue-grey poodle mix with a long bubblegum tongue and tear stained eyes. The Captain has three legs and Jared falls ass over feet for the shaggy little thing in the half hour they spend with him out in the free-roam cage area. 

After two weeks of tearful waves and sorry-sounding yips, Jensen concedes. He was probably always going to. Jared doesn’t ask for anything, and that’s likely the reason why Jensen does it. He can’t say no when Jared’s so good at saying yes. 

Jensen pays the adoption fee, buys a couple of bowls and a leash and a babygate. Sets the wiggling pooch up in the clergy house. Captain Salamander is Jared’s dog, but Jensen is Jared’s bitch.

 

~

 

“Can I show you, too?” Jared says, not long after the first trip to the vet. “That—that I’m happy.”

The boy smells like bone treats and Play-Doh and a sweeter, deeper ripeness sitting just behind his ears. Jensen thinks of the serene stone statues poised out front and he tries to mimic the look. 

“You can draw me a picture if you’d like? I’d love that. You know how much I enjoy your—“

“No,” Jared shakes his head, a single-minded thought blistering out of his mouth. “Like how you did to me. If you could teach me, I can do it.” His voice winds down quiet like a ballerina box. 

And Jensen is saved.

 

~

 

Hail Mary sounds metaphysically beautiful when it’s spoken around a mouthful of cock. 

These are the first lessons Jensen gives him. To help mind his teeth and coil his tongue. They go through the Our Father this way, and when Jared’s developing jawbone can handle it, they start in on the Apostle’s Creed. It's not even actually sex. Not really, not yet, and it doesn't feel like a sin.

When they get to the act of swallowing, Jensen's not going to press the matter. Letting it go in the boy's mouth is already enough to have his eyes rolling to their whites, hands cradling Jared's blushy face. But Jared _mmm!_ s insistently, wild-eyed, looking for guidance. So Jensen tells him it's just like communion. 

Afterwards, Jared washes it down with a cup of grape juice. It's almost the Blood of Christ.

 

~ 

 

Ms. Claudine comes gushing and sweet-facing at him one morning during the week, jazz handsy as ever. Jensen had been gathering his thoughts, putting together a sermon for the next mass, but now she’s got his attention, has him smiling uneasily back at her. 

“Lookwha we got, lookwha we got,” she says, plopping a colorful flyer onto his otherwise orderly desk. Garish music notes line the perimeter. 

“It’s the signups for Youth Choir!” she tells him on a zazzled shout, as though he can’t read or hear. She plinks a red acrylic about halfway down and snicks her tongue knowingly, tapping the 14-letters that make up his wettest, most loved-on dream.

"Oh," Jensen says, stumbled. "Oh. I hadn't even known he was thinking about it."

“Uh-uh,” she tells him, hen-clucking. “Could tell this one was coming ‘bout a mile away. Have you seen the way that boy looks at you, dear?”

It takes a lot to make him pink up, but right then it feels as though Jensen’s wearing Vegas style rouge on his face, paranoia licking his lips glossy and a sweat-glittering browbone to match.

“He doesn’t—“

“He _does_ ,” she says, and crowds down into his bubble of breath. “Father, that precious little thing doesn’t speak to a single soul on Earth I’ve ever seen. ‘cept for you,” she says pointedly, crystal-ball stare. Then she grins so big she flashes the lipstick on her teeth. “And suddenly he wants to sing in front of God and sweet Mary?”

“Ms. Claudine,” he says, clearing his throat. This is bordering blasphemous.

She waves herself off by way of apology, then says, dimmer, caringly, “I just knew when your name went up on that announcement, that you’d be molding the lungs of our little singers and songstresses – he’d be there.” She pats his cement hand. And _winks_. “And don’t tell him I said this, but I think he really fancies them robes.”

 

~

 

Choir practice runs on Saturdays. Between Sunday school glimpses and after school special time, it’s the only day they don’t actually see each other. Or, it was.

The purple gown dwarfs purple Jared when they all try on their new gear over their clothes. It’s exquisite.

Jensen asks him to keep it on later, once everyone else has gone home for supper and swingsets, and he crawls beneath the material and mouths at the boy in utter contentment. He bathes Jared’s small balls, goes curiously further back to places that make Jared giggle, where he’s warm and fragrant and little-kid smooth.

“You’re really happy today,” Jared says, loopy and out of breath when Jensen’s all done. He looks like a doll that smiles when you press the tummy. 

“I am,” Jensen says, subconsciously licking away the sweat at the side of Jared’s knee. And the gutting thing is, is that it’s true.

He’s never been happier. He never wants it to end. He never wants Jared to grow up.

 

~

 

“All the girls think you’re really—that you look,” Jared stammers, still-shy fingers jerking up and down, little fist wrapped nervously around the weight of Jensen’s love for him. 

“What? How do I look?” Jensen sighs fitfully, urges Jared’s movements quicker. He smiles sunshine at the boy, hopes to vanish the clouds drifting in their atmosphere. 

“Really good.” Jared whines, distressed. “They say you’re super pretty. That you should be in, um. Movies.” Jensen’s hips jump and he lets his head fall back on a thick, shuddering moan. He’s making love to Jared’s clammy hand. “I think so, too.”

Jensen’s eyes flash hot, skin bubbling beneath the halogen lights of the bathroom, and he’s been here before with Jared. He knows what this is. He knows what to do.

Just before his body goes flying apart, he wraps his arms around the insubstantiality of Jared’s torso, holds the boy who gives him the best sex of his life tight to his chest, and says, “I don’t care about anyone else, Jared. I don’t see them.” His cock rubs sticky against the flat of Jared’s asthmatic chest, drooling out truth. 

“You’re the only one I see. You make me _hurt_.” 

 

~

 

They spend half an hour spidered together in a crude tangle, Jensen nosing underneath Jared’s arms, Jared smiling relief against Jensen’s stubbled throat, the bird of a boy calmed in knowing that somebody in the world really loves him.

Their first real kiss is right there on the tile floor, Jared’s pale body shivering from the draft, Jensen crouched naked in his lap, petting his babyhairs off his face, crying into his red wet mouth. Jared tastes like allergy medicine. Jensen’s worked so hard for this kiss.

 

~

 

“Please please please,” Jensen sobs, hunching desperately against his little love, mock-fucking against his lap. He knows it can’t happen, Jared doesn’t achieve erection yet, but he has to have something. “Put them in, hurry. God. Jared, please do this.”

Stunned, Jared does it exactly like Jensen says, compliant and stiffly amateur, angle all wrong, but it’s gorgeous how it happens. He gets four fingers up in Jensen’s body, nearly his entire tiny hand, and Jensen buries his face in Jared’s peachfuzz neck and screams a scream of the slaughtered. 

“I think—I think,” Jared says, clutching Jensen’s butt in an unintentionally lewd way, and he squinches his eyes shut tight and whispers to Jensen that he thinks he’s going to pee, oh my god. 

He doesn’t. There’s nothing wet between them but semen and salt. Jared just came dry. Jensen just came to life. 

 

~

 

In the morning, for the first time in years, Jensen goes into the little chapel with the crosses and the candles and the incense that smart at his throat, the place where he knows he’ll be alone. Father Ackles gets down on his blowjob knees, lowers his eyes, and starts to pray.

He whimpers, and he confesses, and he pleads in an unknowable language for God to have mercy on him this once. He’ll not ask for anything again, he’ll not spoil another child’s garden if he can have this one sorrowful thing.

Jensen prays that his juvenile heart be forced open a little wider, rosebud into a bloom, to give that little bit more. To let him go on loving Jared even after the last petal falls. Even when Jared goes on to become a tree grown and gone from giggles and gap-teeth.

He blows out the candle and dips his fingers in the stoup of holy water, presses them to his face, into his pores. He wants to want his purple prince forever, and only hopes that he can. He leaves to start his ritual at the Kiddie Korner sink. 

 

~

 

Jensen won’t know if God heard him for at least a few more years.


End file.
